The Yellow Room
by Kleon Luminia
Summary: Roderich Edelstein finally started a prospect of a more independent life as a conservatory freshman. While passing time, he met a certain stranger who asked him a very sappy, straightforward question. As time passes by, his own answer would painfully burden his decisions as he gradually realises that every situation cannot simply be relieved by mere good judgement and blunt logic.
1. Prologue

**The Yellow Room  
**~AN APH FANFICTION~

**Warnings:** Human AU, Male Slash, Inappropriate  
themes and languages, OC minor characters,  
Mature Content in later chapters, Don't like? Don't read!  
Favourite, Follow, Review ― Your Choice (but... please?)  
**Pairing: **Habsburg Haus (Spain and Austria)

**Note:** Austria-centric point of veiw

I don't own APH whatsoever.

* * *

**Prologue**

…

-o**0**o-

Almost every new encounter in life doesn't present any kind of warning at all. It is apparent that only time could decide if those moments will either be significant or otherwise. However, those little encounters will always have the intention of hitting you faster than the speed of a book falling from a topmost shelf.

_"There you go. This happens a lot so be careful next time. Just so you know… many people are inconsiderate enough to just cram the books they won't buy at the top of well-arranged ones."_

That time, in my very first visit inside that certain bookstore, I plainly branded that encounter as nothing else but a fast and insignificant meeting. Some random stranger's smile, a kind and helping nature befitting to such an ambiance of skyscraper shelves and faint whiffs of hardbound fungus. The scene was ordinary; actions expected and meant to be forgotten quicker than re-shelving three unwanted paperbacks. Such encounters are an example of a prevailing law of everyday life― you cross paths with a random person, then you manage to smile out of courtesy and afterwards, you just move on, continuing to walk towards the opposite direction. This law always has this simple purpose of preventing a person from having too many people his life.

Even so, there are times when time prevails over this law. At that very moment, he could have moved… I could have gone home. However, not one of us even shifted an inch. All those forces that I wasn't meant to see only brought the speed of our lives to an exact same pace.

For all I know, if anything in our lives before was even a mere second late, he could have asked that question to somebody else and not to me.

_"Say, can a person really turn his back from someone he loves so much?"_

His straightforward voice broke the delicate sound of Debussy's music from a stereo speaker nearby.

I remember turning my attention towards him with perhaps an obvious puzzled look on my face. At the same instance, I realised he was not looking at me. His eyes were only fixated on that one open yellow paperback he was holding. I decided to ignore him then even though I was perfectly aware that there were only the two of us staying at the current lane. I just concluded that he was only talking to himself. Well, because… _why all of a sudden? _ Deciding that it must simply be the reason, I brought back my gaze into my own row of books, refusing to wonder furthermore.

Somehow, for a second, I stalled as I ran my index finger through a row of book spines. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of answer shall be spoken out for such a question.

_ "What do you think?"_

His voice overwhelms again, this time breaking nothing but the silly private thoughts inside of my head. It's not that I really do mind being bothered over such a small degree of persistency. Still, it was a gesture that is no less rude, so I expressed my irritation.

_"Are you talking to me?"_

_"Well… I think there's no one else here besides us."_

_"Do I really have to answer such a ridiculous, sappy question?"_

Besides, it also buys me time. As I really haven't pieced up a sensible answer yet.

_"Not really. I'm sorry for being intrusive."_

I sighed. After all those trouble secretly putting together all the little fragments of my honest thinking. An uncomfortable silence crept up the laminated wood flooring under our feet, giving way for _The Girl with the Flaxen Hair_ to whisper into our ears. It was for a minute or two, and then I, myself reclaimed the stillness and forced my voice out into it.

_"If the feeling is… mutual, I say he'd certainly be such a big fool if he does leave. If he loves this person so much like you said, he'll never think once of leaving. A person who loves doesn't abandon."_

Surprised, he glanced at me and then threw me another question almost immediately.

_"Even if he has a good reason?"_

_"Love doesn't need reasons. If he finds himself seeking reasons then there will only be nothing but hesitations. With that, a person fighting for the one he loves doesn't need any kind of reason."_

I never expected myself to quickly respond with such firm conviction and fervour. I never even knew from where those ideas of mine came from. What I knew is, at that moment, words flowed from my mouth as if I were someone who knows better than the rest.

_"Love is not even considered a mere reason… for fighting against odds to be with someone is love itself. Reasons can only turn into hesitation. Someone who loves doesn't give up fighting whatever the cost. If he gives up, who knows how much regret he'll have in the future?"_

The duration of his silence after that was almost as long as my words were. He stared back a few more seconds onto his book before finally closing it and placing it on a shelf at his eye level. He then threw his glance back at me, making me twitch my head back as I realised that how silly it seemed that I was waiting for him to do that. Pretending to do my business, I abruptly grabbed three books from the shelf closest to me. One, I recall, is something that goes: _A Distant Man's Guide to Feelings_.

_"That's quite an insight... but I guess you're right."_ Before he went off he added. _"Your girl must be very lucky to have you."_

He started walking away bringing nothing from the lane and then seconds later, the view of his striped sweater disappeared completely from the edge of the farthest shelf. I, in turn, inattentively shelved those three books that I don't desire to buy in the first place. Then I just stared blankly at the words _"Guide to Feelings" _printed in book spine as I nearly laughed at all the thoughts that crossed my mind.

Surely, I might manage to act a little bit warmer than I used to, I could also somehow pass off as handsome even just slightly, my family is extremely meddling and my frugality is clearly not of the average level. However, as I had just said before, if I truly love her… I'll never _ever_ let her go.

_For that, my non-existent girlfriend must be very happy._

My watch finally reminded me to head off to the checkout as I have to return to my upcoming conservatory's admissions office to finalise my registration. However, before that, I found myself curious enough to take a look at that book the stranger I met was staring into so absorbedly. I ran my fingers towards that specific shelf and pulled out the book.

_Moonrise above the Yellow Room_

At that moment, everything finally shed its light towards me. That was the novel my friend, Elizabeta, was crazy about. One time or another, I saw her bawling over it and then she asked me to try to read it as she tossed the book towards me as a gift. I couldn't find the urge to read it, though. I was never big for such fiction. It just felt too cliché and excessively sentimental for me to read.

Looking back, I somehow had the idea that the book was about forbidden love.

I fanned out the pages of that sampler book. There was some flyer or clipping at chapter thirteen that I judged was made as bookmark and I was quite astonished realising that he, the stranger, was actually reading the novel bit by bit. I thought— how come he wouldn't buy a copy for himself? Strangely, he seemed too thrifty, even to someone as frugal as me. He's even lucky not being reprimanded by store clerks. Then it dawned to me that he was actually hiding it amongst biographies in this furthest aisle, the nonfiction lane, which was in fact the most inconspicuous place for free reading.

I finally placed the book back to where the stranger had left it and walked away to make my own purchase. With that door chime that ended my visit to that bookshop, I was still sure that everything that had happened was nothing but an encounter for the day that shall only be a fading memory by tomorrow.

Life has its mechanisms. The ephemeral grasp of both our times seemed to have ended at that moment and each of our lives finally shifted to their respective unique speeds. I then only continued to rightfully walk towards the opposite direction.

Never knowing at all…  
that it was still the same path towards him.

-o**0**o-

...

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This fic is actually my very first Hetalia fan fiction. I started writing this almost two years ago and now, I finally nailed the whole plot down. I hope you'll enjoy this very poignant story.

**Claude Debussy **(1862-1918) – was a French composer commonly associated with Impressionist music.

**The Girl with the Flaxen Hair** – or _"La fille aux cheveux de lin"_ is the eighth piece in Debussy's first book, _Préludes_ composed for solo piano. The preludes in book one and two are brimming with rich but unusual harmonies and with techniques comparable to those of Chopin. [Youtube Link: _watch?v=Yu4KObwynSc_]

And yes... I was listening to Yiruma and Brian Crain while working on this fic.

**About the cover –** The cover photo is made by me using Sketchup 8, Shaderlight and Ps CS5. So sad that FFN reduced its quality.


	2. Reprise

**The Yellow Room  
**~AN APH FANFICTION~

**Warnings:** Human AU, Male Slash, Inappropriate  
themes and languages, OC minor characters,  
Mature Content in later chapters, Don't like? Don't read!  
Favourite, Follow, Review ― Your Choice (but... please?)  
**Pairing: **Habsburg Haus (Spain and Austria)

**Note: **This chapter is in present tense to avoid time sequence confusion.

I don't own APH whatsoever.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Reprise  
**_(in medias res)_

…

-o**0**o-

_You know how life had been unkind to us, giving us so much hardship that we both do not deserve to suffer. We were lost and cruelly wounded in so many different ways until we both could only gasp our very last breath. It had been so long that I've always thought that its ruthlessness finally left me and let me be at peace. However, I was completely wrong._

_Earlier this day, as I stood there dressed in a stiff white tuxedo and utterly callous towards my own feelings, I just impassively waited to finally cage myself into my unbending decisions. Everything has been set as how I've clearly seen it to be, as how everyone clearly desired it to be. I would never expect for a mere sweet vibrato of a pressed 'A' string to easily cloud my thoughts and bring out all those hurting memories from the depths of my mind. _

_I furiously yelled at that poor young violinist. _

_It wasn't at all discreet how the people around me were nothing but scandalised. I could visibly see in their faces that my anger was deemed unreasonable and it wasn't that hard for me to know what goes around in their heads— that I was completely out of my mind getting too rash, too irrational for something so trivial._

_Trivial? How could they simply think of it that way! As if they know what that piece meant to me, what it meant to us. As if they know exactly how I felt. As if they know how much I suffered as I pretend that everything is where it's supposed to be. I ran away. I am fed of all those people not daring to understand. I just wanted to get away from all of them… from everything._

_It was just an unintentional mistake but then fate doesn't acknowledge mistakes, intentional or not. For all its notions, everything has its reasons, including these errors. Chance always has its way… like making that violinist mistakenly play that piece on this very day of all other days. But how could he be making this mistake of all other mistakes that he could make? Couldn't he just play anything else besides that piece? How dare would this wretched life play with my feelings all over again!_

_As if in the past, it hadn't had enough already._

_In mere seconds, all of those memories I have always kept at bay came flooding in. Memories that are so happy, memories that are meant to bluntly tell me the precious value of what I have lost. The memory of you just simply brings up all of those tears that I've never shed all these years. You have no idea how hard it was for me to try to forget you. On how many times I wanted to see you, tell to nobody that I still love you and composing these messages that I know will never reach you. _

_Many years have already passed. Every day of each year only felt heavier and heavier. Even so, I never admitted the truth that I was struggling. I never dared to count each passing day. I did not ever dare take notice of the passing time, of what kind of a person I had become since the day you're gone._

_But this must be the end of it, the farthest I could go on hiding from myself. I have no other choice but to acknowledge my honest feelings and the broken soul that is the true reflection of my present self. On where I would land after this, I don't even know… but perhaps someday, I'll find yet another glimpse of certainty in my life. However, I would never wish to forget you again. Not ever._

_Since I'm already learning that forgetting your memory is just as painful as remembering them all once again._

…

* * *

…

I can't stop the blotting of the paper under my closed fists. A swirl of dissolved ink starts running slowly through his scripted name, making it almost ineligible. I realise that I neither have written his name in a very long time nor I have spoken a sound of it inside my mind. Or perhaps, I did... only for a few forgotten times on a handful of unconscious dreams.

_Antonio_

My lips feel the bitterness as a faint whisper escapes. The longing starts to flow in my veins and I feel utterly and unbearably cold.

This place just screams of his very memory. It longs for him as how I long for him. The yearning has all along seeped in the depths of the quiet walls, the yellow-covered novel sitting open on a chair, the red mug atop the sink... the pair of toothbrushes in the bathroom. They were all unmoving, frozen in perpetual silence. However, I still can hear all of those things that they're aching to tell me.

Everywhere I look at is all worth a million words. Maybe even a lot more than that for they can easily outnumber the amount of dust gathered by the floor over the years.

I never knew what made me keep this place after everything that had happened and all I had gone through. Leaving for another residence but then pleading before the apartment's owner for the sale of this unit was pathetic enough to begin with. But what's even more pathetic was my rushed choice of moving on even though deep inside, I really was expecting for something else to happen.

To make matters worse, I was not willing to admit it. Not even to myself.

I reach for my pair of eyeglasses beside my hand on the small wooden dining table and fit them through my ears. The refrigerator, I notice, has still these numerous overlapping notes from before stuck on its surface. Most of the handwritings aren't mine but they're all piercingly familiar to me. The very last one in the middle says: _"Gone to buy something, I'll be back."_

_"I'll be back."_

_Oh god..._

I force my way out of the kitchen, almost injuring myself with a scattered chair along my path. I heavily lean on the surface of the door frame as I try to calm myself and slowly deal with the flooding grief. I then just blankly stare at my letter as it falls crumpled towards the floor.

My gaze shifts upward to my right and I glimpse towards something large draped in ashen cloth. Images begin to overwhelm my mind and I almost see myself seated on the piano chair, feeling the keys. Nearly at the side of what seems to be me is a bay window where he was seated, one palm against his cheek and his pair of kind eyes fixed only to me as I play.

I swiftly take my eyes away, closing them for a brief moment before sombrely picking up the creased letter from the floor. That scene had been very real and tangible to me. But now, it has only faded away into a mere desperate fantasy of mine. I perfectly knew that what I saw is just nothing but my coping guilt forming a finite illusion.

The early evening air greets me as I go out to the balcony of my old room to take a deep breath. I sit on the cold floor, resting my head on the stone surface of the balustrade. My eyes briefly constrict as a nearby lamp post switches on for the nightfall. The light splatters through the balusters' gaps, flashing out a silhouetted illumination against a panelled door on the adjacent side. And then I suddenly remember... all those simple everyday moments I hear him come out of the same door and see his manner of yawning his own mornings away. That panelled door across me leads to his room. I hitch a breath. I know that I will never have courage to go through that door again.

I place a hand towards the floor and help myself shift towards a more comfortable position. As I grasp the bottom edge of the balustrade I felt something cold and metal below the jutting concrete. It was a lighter. It was his lighter.

I decide to pull myself up and lean against the railing. Playing my left thumb momentarily against the lighter's cap, I suddenly outstretch my arm sideways and give life to a small flame. I unreservedly pretend that he is there asking me to light his cigarette. In my deepest imaginations, the subtle feeling of his fingers tenderly wraps around my wrist. But then in all reality, that gentle grasp is just the empty breeze making the flame die along with every single bit of my unreality.

It is darker once again. The night quickly drapes itself above the whole city and the people beneath walk hastily either towards home or to someplace else for their evening plans. The dark sky's beginning to thicken with heavy clouds and it might be the reason why most of them are in such a hurry.

However, unlike them, I have no plans of going anywhere— _home_ or to _someplace else._

All these years, everything that I did was to continually step forward. When it seemed that I'm barely even there to make it, I just simply faked the feeling that I did. Without realising anything, I was far too adrift into the validating applauses of mere strangers. It was utterly desensitising. Now I know that only within these walls I would find my abandoned soul… my forgotten sense of regret. I'm well aware that taking an uncertain step backwards is never void of pain. Excruciating it may be, I only hope that this remorse will be enough for my atonement. If it would… then maybe, _just maybe_… I'd finally be able to forgive myself from speaking so much of promises that I couldn't fulfil.

I hold on tight against the lighter in my grasp and let go, only to stare at it one more time.

Everything here speaks about him, the memory of his every word and gesture. Touching the things that once belonged to him almost feels like sensing a little part of his life. All those little things made him who he was and made up who he was— they make me miss him even so much more. I realise... the littlest of things are the actually heaviest of burdens. It somehow sparks the realest of heartaches and drives the sharpest splinter into a wound that had long refused to heal.

_"Is it so wrong to love somebody who is not around anymore? What difference does it really make?" _

Back then when he said that to me, I could hardly take in all the sense within his words. I even found what he said almost absurd and laughable at that time. Confused, I had thought— _what's the use in keeping yourself trapped in the past? _ Suffering that way, for me, was just something very unfair. However, I never knew that there are always things in the past that you can never erase. It is useless even if you do try forcing yourself to forget, recall is always inevitable. A person's memories keep the people no longer with them alive, their every habit… their every word and gesture. Now, I begin to fully understand what he meant even through the hardest way.

I flick the lighter's cover and light up a flame once again. My other hand feels its way through my pocket and draws out the letter from before. I touch a corner into the flame and embers quickly spread upward, turning my words into ashes and smoke. The pieces of ash turn smaller and smaller as each break and peacefully plummet away towards the pavement.

Every fragment of my letter merely turns into insignificant dust towards the frightening distance, finally succumbing into gravity. I close my eyes for a second, letting a welled-up tear escape the confinement of my reddened eyelids. With that, there is nothing more to say.

I have my resolve.

The lighter rapidly falls out of my weakened grasp. My hands tremble as each one tensely grips itself tight against the unbearably cold railing of the balustrade.

-o**0**o-

…

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This chapter's published a lot later than I've planned due to my recent illness. For almost two weeks, I haven't taken a look at this chapter and when I finally did… Whew! All the errors stuck out like a sore thumb.

I had lot of close calls towards wrong use of adjectives. If there's anything else I had missed, please send me a note below. Also, I apologise for too much feels. Blame this: [Youtube Link: _watch?v=-sWnEWpS_fA_]. Personally (unlike these things I write), I am not actually a very emotional person. But hell, if someone doesn't feel something about that piece… he/she's very much akin to an inanimate object.

**ON THE NEXT!:**

Chapter 2: Overture

[Excerpt]

_...He was still exactly the same as I remembered him. What would three days do anyway? He still asks questions way too straightforwardly, his skin was still swarthy, his eyes were still as cloying as ever and his smile still gives off too much unnecessary kindness. Although, he wasn't in a striped sweater like before, his body was now clad in a dark red hoodie which also covers most of his unkempt brown hair. It's just all the difference… well maybe I could add those reddened eyelids and that little piece of plaid Band-Aid on his jaw, peeking under the fabric of his hood..._


	3. Overture

**The Yellow Room  
**~AN APH FANFICTION~

**Warnings:** Human AU, Male Slash, Inappropriate  
themes and languages, Smoking, OC minor characters,  
Mature Content in later chapters, Don't like? Don't read!  
Favourite, Follow, Review ― Your Choice  
**Pairing: **Habsburg Haus (Spain and Austria)

I don't own APH whatsoever.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Overture  
**_(Eight years ago)_

…

-o**0**o-

The door in front of me still remained as dead-motionless as it had always been for the past forty-five minutes. In my sheer unwillingness to just take it as the final straw, I raised a reddened finger and once again pushed the much-abused doorbell button. Perhaps, it was the hundredth time already. For the hundredth time too, the buzzing sound within started yet again, flinging out strident echoes towards the silence of the morning. Disrupting. Grating.

And for the hundredth time then and again… no one answers at the door.

I pushed the doorbell once more. This time, on several succeeding and more forceful rams filled with irritation and impatience. My aching soles were already protesting in discomfort inside of my everyday shoes. My ears were no better as it started to ring in rhythm with the buzzing sound of the damned doorbell. Even with all of these, I still remained there, screaming my existence. I never really cared anymore if someone were to charge out of this door, flailing around a sharpened breakfast knife.

Anyway, this situation wouldn't actually happen if I hadn't already wasted a good forty-five minutes waiting on my feet in front of this stupid door. Besides, the idea of walking away with the frustration of not having accomplished anything had never been an acceptable option for me.

_Damn._

Shifting my weight and tiredness from one foot to another and repeating several more times, I began doubting the validity of my recent memories. I recollected every one of them, replaying each inside the theatre of my mind. _Had I really contacted the apartment's occupant before showing up? Or maybe I only just dreamt that I did? _I grabbed my phone from inside my overcoat and checked its message list. In fact, the said conversation was still at the top of the entire roll.

It read:

_I suppose you are someone interested in the space.  
__It's still free. Just meet me up in my apartment tomorrow.  
__Any time before 5 PM would be good. :D_

Three days ago, I stopped by a certain bookstore to pass the rest of my lunch time before setting off for a hectic afternoon at the conservatory. By the end of that day, I was so exhausted that I just nearly slept straightaway when I arrived at my hotel room. However, the fact that I haven't yet searched for a more permanent place prevented me from instantly flying off to dreamland. So I just stood up and cleared things as I always do when feeling stressed.

Preparing the hotel laundry bag and as I folded my used trousers, there was this little piece of paper that I got out from one of the pockets. At that time, I suddenly remembered that it was the _bookmark_ I had taken from the novel back at that bookshop. It appeared that I had somehow unconsciously slid it inside my pocket back then.

Reading the paper, it was a classified ad clipping of apartment rentals— and with the best deals! I was thrilled. It was very timely and I really needed it.

REASONABLE PRICE AND NEGOTIABLE

My hands reached for the same clipping inside my overcoat pocket. I spread it out and read those words loud and clear in my mind.

I am not very certain if such a shared apartment deal is the rightest or safest decision at the moment. However, whenever the thought of saving about eighty percent more than what I had already carefully calculated, the option gets too irresistible. As I weighed every single thing out, the only possibility that I would not push through this arrangement would be if my roommate himself have obvious unpleasant issues.

_Himself._

I admit that the thought of the occupant being a man was just a mere product of my default imaginations. I don't really even know if the actual person's a _him _or a _her_. I suppose it's just a wild guess, maybe intuition… even more likely— an expectation. And I admit that there's even more to that. In all actuality, I already made a silly mental picture of a spendthrift young adult with blond hair, wearing a tie and works as a bank clerk. Certainly, that's what I'm presuming to see the moment that this door opens.

Then again, as each heavy and excruciating minute passed by, this belief simply warped out into the other dimension, outside the four walls of my present attentions.

I simply held onto the newsprint paper. My stare eating through every word of the address until it grasps the very numbers _412 _printed in boldface. Before I got here, I am very well sure that I really was walking towards the right direction. I am _not_ just simply lost. Not in front of this door that holds a gleaming, bronze-painted-gold _"412" _above a tiny peephole.

_Certainly, I am not lost at all! Not lost in the fourth floor of this old, cracked apartment building. Not lost at the new paint-smelling hallways… at the sight of room 412 and its door that simply refuses to open!_

A sudden frazzled feeling started to sprout and radiate within my body. I really should have taken a proper breakfast before going here. Dizzy, I rested the side of my head against the wooden doorframe, staring at the lone window at the end of the narrow corridor.

The warm sun was getting brighter, rising up and up into the sky.

With it, all the hopes of me having an at least, considerate roommate were melting.

A sharp scoff escaped my lungs. The unpleasant mixture of infuriation and frustration began to fill my head with hot blood. All the irritation caused by wasted time, wasted effort and the thought of this pointless situation wasting away the period allotted for all the other things listed inside my mental to-do lists made my hand form a very tight fist… and repeatedly bang it hard towards the door's surface.

I only stopped when I finally heard a muffled voice and one obvious noise of something ceramic falling then rolling down on hard floor. My anger had significantly toned done, though my irritation was still hot under my skin. I then flexed my fingers and pushed the doorbell button once again.

Now a much clearer voice sounded off a few feet behind the door. I slightly made out what he was saying and just as I guessed, he was a man. Apparently, he seemed to speak in a foreign language which resembles Spanish or perhaps, Italian. My expectations honestly didn't include a foreign person. Actually, I even forgot to consider it as a possibility.

Finally, the closed door that I faced for almost an hour opens into a crack, only to be tugged back by a safety chain. The person behind immediately freed the lock and swung the door very wide.

Who I saw was clearly not of my expectation. He's a person that wasn't even included in my numerous considerations and wild guesses. In fact, he might not even pass as a possibility for me.

Then again, I realised that all co-incidences are still concrete possibilities.

I stalled. He spoke first.

"…You!"

"Oh… you." I placidly replied.

"You're the guy from three days ago…" He pointed a finger at me on which I intensely glowered at. He then immediately dropped it and continued, "…at the bookstore, three blocks away. W-why are you here? Is there something you need from me? How did you find me here?"

"What's with the million questions?" I cynically retorted at his nervous laugh. "Don't get any funny ideas. I came here for the space and I'm kind of surprised too… I never thought I'll cross paths with you again, stranger. Certainly not this way."

He gave an intent stare before finally breaking into a hearty laugh. "Well, I think I'm very much glad to see you again."

He was still exactly the same as I remembered him. What would three days do anyway? He still asks questions way too straightforwardly, his skin was still swarthy, his eyes were still as cloying as ever and his smile still gives off too much unnecessary kindness. Although, he wasn't in a striped sweater like before, his was now clad in a dark red hoodie which also covers most of his unkempt brown hair. It's just all the difference… well maybe I could add those reddened eyelids and that little piece of plaid Band-Aid on his jaw, peeking under the fabric of his hood.

I blinked my eyes away from him, to automatically observe what my vision could catch from where I was standing. When he apparently just froze and stood there, I raised an eyebrow.

"You won't invite me in?"

"Uh…yeah. Sorry… please come in."

The living room was fairly neat and tidy with the exceptions of a fallen duvet in front of a sofa, some cluttered pillows and an open TV on mute. A lone ceramic angel figurine with a wing missing also sits atop a wood and glass coffee table. Perhaps, it was what I heard falling a while ago.

Besides all of those, it looked fine. The furniture didn't appear too tacky for my taste and I actually appreciate how symmetrical the red carnations were arranged on one table-top vase. The shiny laminated floor appeared clean and across to other side was a good space that could definitely house a piano. It was just a little dark, though. Perhaps, the curtains of the supposedly sufficient light-giving bay window close by were just too thick.

After sweeping a hundred and eighty-degree view, my eyes flicked back towards the hooded man. It vexed me as I just saw him still near the doorway, just standing passively and not doing anything to accommodate my future questions nor pushing an effort to sell his deal.

I took a loud deep breath, wanting to get a hold of his attention. When the breath I inhaled immediately turned into sharp sigh of exasperation, he at last pulled out from the almost-empty bookshelf he was leaning against and met me at where I was standing.

"Sorry, could you smell some tobacco?" He piped up, slipping the fabric of his hood down to his shoulders. "Well... I smoke but I only do it on the balcony outside. I think I should let you know."

I just shook my head. "No, I don't smell such in particular."

Just moments after he spoke, it hit me straight away that he hadn't got a single bit of my exasperation at all. Apparently, the intended words behind my actions just slipped through his realisations as he only thought that I was plainly sniffing around his place.

"The ventilation here in the living room might have a hard time getting rid of the fumes, so I don't really smoke indoors. Plus, the odour might sink into the curtains and upholstery."

Aside from his odd means of reading my actions, what bewildered me the most was his equally odd way of thinking.

_You won't let smoke into your precious living space and yet you like them going inside your body? Isn't that kind of ironic?_

Even though I really wanted to tell him that, I only bit my lip and kept that remark to myself. Besides, it's clear that wasn't really a concern of mine anyway. Going back to the task at hand, I simply sauntered away towards the bay window. The soft sunlight immediately fell into my face as I knelt on the windowsill-couch and grasped away the thick curtain. Then I peeked at the outside scene against the mellow glare. Across the street, there was a small park and the window provides quite a fairly adequate glimpse of it.

However, aside from that, the window was really nothing special. The window's design even seemed a little inconvenient, since I discovered that only the two small top panels could be opened.

"The person who was with me before really liked that window. Back then, that was the feature that had him convinced to rent the place from the original owner. Ever since… it had been quite a precious place—"

I quietly stepped back and looked at him. "Where would be my bedroom?"

His lips stretched into a small smile and he opened the wooden door behind him.

"It's a little bigger than mine. My bedroom's just next door. This room has wall-to-wall nylon carpeting and there behind the curtains is a sliding window." He enounced and raised a hand to gesticulate. "Also, that _portafinestra_ leads to the small balcony outside. The last occupier here left all of his furniture. Use or replace it... whatever suits you."

I wandered around and carefully inspected every corner, including the closet and drawers. The room was just fine. There was nothing really bad that I could say about it. Although the green curtains and bed sheets looked immensely despicable. The too-soft, squashy mattress needed to be replaced too. Even so, I could fairly fix those shortcomings myself. A writing desk is also a good addition.

As my eyes flick back a little bit, I caught a glimpse of him looking intently through the lamp atop the nightstand. I was witnessing his happy expression die down before he suddenly picks up my stare and he chuckled.

"Let's move on? I'll show you the bathroom and the kitchen."

We immediately left the bedroom and he then showed me the connected laundry, kitchen and dining area. It was fairly tidy, has complete appliances and the short kitchen counter appeared pest-proof. There was only one toilet and bath to use but it was spacious enough and appeared clean as well, except for a tipped messy vase of wilted carnations in the sink that needed to be thrown away.

Meticulously checking everything for half an hour, there was nothing I could really find wrong about the unit to prevent me from closing the deal. In fact, I actually liked the place very much. However, I could never deny that I still have bugging second thoughts about the guy who currently lives here that will be a roommate of mine.

However, it's non-negotiable. He is already part of the package even from the start. It's not that I don't like him because he looks suspiciously felonious to me. On the other hand, I admit that I really couldn't find a deeper reason on why I find him unpleasant. Can't one mere dislike be simply an effect of _just because?_ I finally guess… it could.

He was now seated at the couch across me, spooning some syrupy hot chocolate drink and then splitting some store-bought crackers above a bowl. He had offered me those just a while ago which I, of course, kindly refused. I was quite starving for not having breakfast yet, however, I don't really have the appetite to eat off someone else's breakfast. Not that I even find theirs especially delectable.

"By the way, what time did you arrive this morning?"

"I see that you really do ask very good questions." I slid back my eyeglasses up my nose bridge. "I arrived here about a quarter past-seven. And as I say that, you would probably know at this very moment how _tiresomely long_ I have waited in front of your door."

"I'm very sorry for that." He laughed nervously. "You might already think that I'm rude or disrespectful but I really had a hard night before and—"

"Okay, okay... I don't really need an explanation. You can't bring back my wasted time with those words anyway." A little sigh then eased out of my chest. "Still, I'm taking your offer."

If his delight could illuminate a light bulb, it would be as bright as thousands of candelas that it could probably cause blindness.

"Oh you don't know how I appreciate it, thank you very much Mr… at the books—"

"Roderich Edelstein." I stressed out.

"Thank you very, very much Mr. Edelstein."

My hand slid inside my coat and reached for my phone. I woke up the screen and viewed my calendar, sliding through different dates. After a small inner deliberation, I raised my gaze and finally chose to ask him.

"Can I move in by Saturday? Saturday morning… shall it be _convenient? _"

"Sure, sure. I promise I'd really be at the door the moment you arrive."

"Well, that's good to hear." I said letting out a sarcastic smirk.

He smiled back at me without any hesitation. The guy just thought that I just genuinely gave him a nice, positively candid smile. I wondered how he could manage to do that in a seemingly very heartfelt way— that extremely kind expression towards me who he barely knew. Maybe, there's a more fitting state of mind that he just shamefully buries behind those too gentle green eyes of his. Yes, I just noticed it, bright green eyes… what a clear-cut pair green eyes it is. It closely resembles the colour of moss.

And I really... really hate moss.

…

-o**0**o-

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well that's it… review? Unregistered users could still write a review if you were wondering.

**ON THE NEXT!:**

Chapter 3: Impetuoso

[Excerpt]

_I haven't resorted myself to react nor even nod in the slightest way. It seemed like in just a mere second, the ability to speak escaped me entirely. My lips parted slightly, confused to some extent at the jumbled signals my mind was giving. I don't even know whether to laugh or be reddened in embarrassment at such awkward response._

_It was because before my eyes, I beheld a completely indistinguishable stranger standing about three feet from where I was currently standing._

_A few more seconds of stalling and I almost blurted out— 'Who are you? Where's Antonio?'_


End file.
